


Coming To Terms

by luvsev



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsev/pseuds/luvsev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione struggles to reconcile dreams of independence and accomplishment with her parents' desire for her to marry and improve their family's social standing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voxangelus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/gifts).



‘Darling Hermione, will you join us in the parlour?’ William called to his daughter, who was lying on her stomach with her legs crossed, underneath a large shade tree, gold and reddish-orange leaves on the grass around her. She had a leather-bound book in front of her. The gilded pages, yellowing with age, lay open, the breeze occasionally lifting a few, much to Hermione’s chagrin. She seemed to be in a land all her own, as her eyes were half-open and focussed on the material, her palms pressed into her pink cheeks as support. 

He called out to her again. ‘Darling, your mother and I—’ 

Hermione sat up and glanced at her father. He was standing on the front porch, smiling at her as the sun dipped further in the sky, its pink rays highlighting the silver threads in his chocolate brown hair. ‘Okay, Daddy,’ she said, her voice elevated because of the distance. She marked her page with a delicate, violet wild flower and hurried into the house, the warm summer breeze flouncing her curls as she moved. She slowed her pace once she crossed the threshold of the house and then into the parlour. 

Her father, handsome in his progressing years, sat in a cream-coloured, straight-backed chair, holding a brandy snifter in his left hand, his fingers cradling the bowl, the heat from his hand warming the liquid. His right hand grasped the black-and-silver head of his cane, idly turning it and listening to the soft scrape it made on the floor. He looked up at Hermione from his seat and smiled at her briefly, the wrinkles in the corners of his hazel eyes showing.

Her mother, Jean, sat on the chaise lounge by a row of narrow windows, her foot tapping a soft rhythm on the floor, her hands were busily working with knitting needles; a square of pale yellow fabric no larger than a baby blanket lay in her lap. As she worked, her grey curls fell into her honey-coloured eyes, and she pushed them back, her gaze drifting to Hermione in her rumpled clothes, a few blades of grass clinging to her blouse, and a tinge of red from the sun colouring her cheeks. Jean rolled her eyes at her daughter’s appearance and returned to her knitting.

Hermione walked further on the polished parquet floors and stopped near the mahogany double corner cabinet with astragal glass moulding. She touched one smooth, canted corner, casting her gaze about the room. It was silent except for even breathing or occasional clanking of needles when shaking hands made a mistake. 

‘You called?’ Hermione watched her mother bite into her lower lip and her father swirl the brandy in his glass. Neither of them responded. She wondered if either of them had heard her. ‘ Let’s not all talk at once.’ 

‘Yes.’ Jean patted the empty space beside her, and the dying rays of the sun caught on the ruby ring Hermione’s father had commissioned for her mother, and glimmered. ‘There’s a most delicate subject we need to discuss, Hermione. Your father and I need you to listen and withhold your temper... and your tongue.’ 

‘Now, now, Jean, don’t worry the girl,’ her father said calmly, noting the sudden down-turn of Hermione’s lips and the way her hands bunched the periwinkle blue fabric of her skirt. ‘Your mother and I are concerned for you, dear. You have been away from school for five years, and you’re set to be a schoolmistress this fall. We think it’s time you consider settling your life and taking a husband. Polite society deems it necessary... unless there are unusual circumstances at play.’ 

‘But, Father, it is not a part of my plans; there are many things I’ve yet to discover, things in which I do not wish to remain dreams.’ 

‘I see nothing that cannot be accomplished without a husband at your side. A mate would enrich your life greatly—’ 

‘And improve our standing in society,’ Jean added. 

‘There are more important things in life, Mother, than social status! Like teaching children, aiding in experiments that will make this world, our world better, and researching cures for illnesses!’ 

‘Work you have no business doing!’ 

‘You’re wrong, and I’ll prove it! There are academic journals in which women contribute, Potions researchers who are moving our world into another century where more cures are available, where new and exciting things are happening!’ 

William slammed his cane on the polished floor, startling Hermione and Jean from their heated argument before it went too far. ‘Enough! Hermione, I’m sure your mother did not mean that women shouldn’t be a part of such things.’ 

‘Don’t assume anything, William. I know what I mean, and so does she. If she appears as nothing more than a bluestocking, our family—’ 

‘We will discuss this later, Jean. Now is not the time.’ He glared at his wife, his upper lip threatening to curl into a snarl. 

‘I can see that my opinion is not needed here, so I will leave. You know where I stand on this, Hermione, and I will not change because you feel the need to traipse across the county unescorted.’ Jean gathered the blanket, yarn, and needles into the wicker basket beside the chaise and stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind her that the tchotchkes in the corner cabinet rattled and toppled over onto a scrap of lace. Thankfully, the delicate trinkets remained unharmed.

William then looked back to Hermione, his gaze softening as he saw tears slip down her sun-kissed cheeks. ‘Hermione, darling, I did not mean to upset you, but I do want you to consider accepting suitors. Maybe you will find someone who shares your passion for learning and your compassion for all living things... How would you like it if I found someone for you—a gentleman who shares your interests, perhaps one who could provide you a comfortable future as well?’ 

Hermione dried her tears on her jacket sleeve and nodded mutely, a sniffle serving as an answer. Her father would do well. He was kind and would not choose someone who would treat her poorly. 

‘What about that Longbottom fellow? He comes from a decent family—his grandmother and uncle brought him up, and I believe he was a schoolmate of yours, yes?’ 

‘Yes, he was. But I’ve never seen him as anything more than a friend, Daddy. He is sweet but entirely too nervous for me.’ 

‘Maybe if you were to visit him outside of school—with a chaperone—you and he might form a connection. Surely at school you didn’t have a chance to become closely acquainted. You are both older now and away from that environment. He must have changed.’ 

‘He may have, but that doesn’t change how I feel about him. He and I were friends of a sort—I tutored him, and we talked, which is how I figured out that we aren’t suited. Well, he knew it, too. We wouldn’t have much of a future with one another. He needs a young woman who is more his type.’ 

He sipped at his warm brandy and said, ‘Give me some time to think on it. We will discuss this further when I have found someone suitable. For now, you could peruse this.’ He set his glass down on the pedestal table at his side and handed a magazine to Hermione. ‘This came in the post for you today. I read a few interesting articles in it earlier. It appears as though Alchemica Postremo has a new editor: S. Prince. The name does not sound familiar to me, though I wonder if you recognise it from your student days.’ 

She glanced at the cover design; it was different. Instead of the usual gothic print and cauldron on the cover, a modern laboratory was featured as well as a title that flowed across the top in spiky script – it reminded her of someone, but she ignored it, thinking he would never consent to such a position, no matter how many times it had been offered to him. He liked his privacy, she knew, and the editor of such a prestigious journal would never be left alone. He didn’t seem the type to hold with the nonsense people would write to him about... but wait, he had been a teacher for many years, so maybe he was. Maybe his personality had changed in the years since he had left. She flipped open the cover and past the page of contents to the editorial section. She skimmed until she saw the brief biography of S. Prince. 

Prince, S. is forty-two, a potioneer of twenty-three years and a collegiate textbook author. He is unmarried and has no children. He resides in Lancashire. 

‘Is there any more information on him, Hermione?’ 

‘No, it’s just those three sentences... unless there is something more in the back.’ She skipped to the last few pages to see if there was anything further, but there wasn’t. There was only an invitation for scholars to submit theories for review and publication. 

‘Not much information available, then. The staff must know what they are doing. I just hope it is the right thing. It would be a shame to see such a reputable journal fall into the wrong hands.’ 

‘Daddy, I’m sure all will be well. They would not hire a lackwit. It does make me wonder what happened to Vigar, though.’ 

‘Vigar was the editor of Innovations.’ 

Hermione thought for a moment, pursing her lips. ‘My mistake. Wrong journal.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

‘I believe you’re thinking of Craic. He retired; I thought you knew.’ 

Hermione shook her head, rising from the chaise and walking to the hutch. She opened one of the bottom cabinets and withdrew a crystal bottle of brandy, which she took to her father. She removed the stopper, pouring William a measure, then set it aside. ‘I take that to mean you knew him.’ 

‘You could say that. He was a patient of mine; I suggested he consider taking another career, one that would allow him a little more...’ he paused to think, ‘creative freedom.’ 

‘Yes. A writer certainly does not have enough creative freedom.’ She arched an eyebrow in challenge, wondering about the real reason Craic left. ‘Surely that was not the reason.’ 

William muttered something about impropriety and unprofessional conduct. 

‘Who am I to tell: the cat?’ 

William chuckled heartily, imagining Hermione telling Crooks about former editors. ‘Suffice it to say he had his own reasons for leaving.’

They continued talking for a while long until the sun finally sunk and the moon shone brightly through the windows, casting an ethereal glow on the room. The candles in the silver candelabras were mere stumps, the wicks almost completely gone, and wax was dried in crisscrossing patterns down the side of the silver and into a small pool at the base. Hermione bent forward and scratched at the wax with her nail, a good chunk of it coming off. 

‘The hour is growing late, Hermione, and I think it’s best we call it a night,’ he spoke, rising from the chair, his knees grinding sickeningly as he rose. He leaned heavily on his cane for a moment, giving his legs time to adjust to the sudden, upright posture he had taken. 

Hermione embraced him, kissing his stubbled cheek, and made her way up the stairs and into her bedroom. The room was dark, and the curtains to her window—which was still open, letting in a chilly breeze—were not yet drawn. She noticed that her pillows were fluffed and that the bed was turned down, waiting for her to slide into the warmth. Her mother must have done it earlier. 

She padded over to the escritoire and laid the academic journal down upon its surface. She turned her back for a moment, debating whether to read or sleep when a sudden breeze from the opened window rattled the pages of the magazine. She turned back around and peered at the pages; they had indeed turned to the very back. Her eyes were drawn to the invitation she had read earlier. She felt a gentle pull in her stomach as she gazed at the script. In a moment, she made up her mind and withdrew quill, ink, blank parchment and readied her theory about the use of belladonna and jimsonweed in conjunction with mandrake leaves to treat heart conditions. She sat down and wrote to S. Prince, giving him a brief introduction of who she was. When she was finished, she included her proposal with the letter and folded it neatly into an envelope, which she magically sealed. With a whistle to her barn owl, Hnossa, off it went. In a matter of days, she would have her answer—either denial or approval. 

She settled into her bed, pulling the covers over her chest and to her chin. Her stomach was in knots as she drifted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose Voxy's prompt: Regency setting. Hermione begins a correspondence with an S. Prince via an academic journal and finds herself falling for him, although she knows next to nothing about him. To complicate matters, her parents fear she'll become a spinster if she manages to evade marriage for another season--but all the suitors they've lined up for her are just not her type. They finally set her up with one of her old schoolmasters, Severus Snape, who has since moved on to greener pastures (doing whatever, author's choice). She has trouble getting past her original impressions until Snape says something that reminds her of her correspondence and letters with Prince. She confronts, he admits being Prince, she flounces off, he wins her over. Happy ending a must.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just after dawn, and muted pink and golden yellow streaks of light shone through lacy curtains, motes of dust floating toward the arched window. Hermione lay fast asleep, her head resting upon fluffy, white, down-filled pillows, curls cascading over her face, hiding it from view. One hand was tucked under her breast while the other was in a half-clench at her side. Her mouth was slack and the tiniest noise escaped—a light ‘kuh’ sound repeating in an uneven rhythm. Time wore on, and she rolled over, now fully on her back, her cheeks rosy from a full night’s rest. 

Her eyelids flitted open, and she blinked, realising it was morning. She wasn’t sure what she wanted first: a bath or coffee. Coffee would be the wisest choice for dealing with her mother so early in the morning. But it wasn’t early, really. She sighed, glancing at the clock; it was already half ten. It seemed as though she had just fallen asleep and suddenly it was time to wake up and start the day. 

She rose, covers clinging to the egg-shell blue nightgown she had worn to bed. She pushed them off with a huff and grabbed the woollen socks lying upon her bedside cabinet. She slipped her freezing feet into the pair of warm socks she had ‘borrowed’ from her father many months before. They had been a deep, rich black and slightly scratchy on her toes when she had taken them from his drawer, but after much use, they were greying and thinning in the heels and pads of the feet. They were still warm, though, and she vowed to keep them until they needed darning; then she would hand them over to her mother. Sure, she would be identified as the sock thief to her father, but she knew he wouldn’t care, as he’d always known her to have cold feet. Hermione fondly recalled him chasing her about the house with a pair of socks when she was a small child. 

Out of her recollection she snapped as she slid across the bare floor and into the wall. She smacked into it with a hard thud and crumpled to the floor, whimpering. Hermione winced, looking at the wall opposite her as she leaned against the cool wood. There it was: the parchment calendar she had made at the beginning of the summer—days were marked off with a sharp, inky slash through each that had passed, counting down until she needed to leave. In two weeks, she would be on her own and back at Hogwarts for the first time in years. 

A soft rapping on the door startled her. ‘Honey, are you ready to join the living?’

Hermione laughed. ‘Come in, why don’t you?’ She didn’t bother to move; she just sat on the hard wood floor with her head against the wall. 

‘Whatever are you doing down there? And is that blood in the corner of your mouth I see?’ Her father cocked his head at her, raising an inquisitive, greying eyebrow. 

‘Not even dressed, I see,’ her mother added, joining them in Hermione’s room. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and then shut them, biting back a retort. Oh, joy, commentary from the peanut gallery just as I wake. I needed this before my cup of coffee. 

‘Are you joining us for breakfast? Or do you prefer to lounge about on the floor in your night things all day and go hungry?’ 

Hermione mumbled something that sounded like a squeak from an aggravated animal. ‘Why, yes, Mother, I had planned on sitting here all day, as I don’t have anything better to do.’ 

‘What, no daydreams to fulfil today, darling?’ 

‘Yes, and this is just the environment: a cold, hard floor, and a draft up my skirts. Perfect for daydreaming, really.’ 

‘Hermione! Must you torment your mother so?’ 

Hermione bit her lip and smirked up at her father. ‘Yes, it’s my favourite form of entertainment, if you must know.’ 

‘Then you haven’t enough to do!’ Jean said indignantly. 

‘Oh, just give me a fortnight.’ Hermione grew weary of the interaction. 

‘With whom shall I fight then? Your father?’ 

‘You and he managed fairly well when I was away. You shall endeavour to do just as well when I leave again.’ Hopefully never to return, she thought.

‘Insolent girl!’ 

‘Yes, that about sums it up. You’re my mother; I must have learned it from somewhere.’ 

‘All right, you two. Jean, I suggest you return to whatever you were doing before this. And Hermione, I believe you never answered what I asked of you earlier.’ 

Once Jean left, Hermione rose from the floor and walked over to the wicker chair in the corner next to her desk, sitting down in it and crossing her legs. She took a white silk ribbon from the escritoire and tied her hair back since it was in her face and clinging to her lips when she tried to speak.

‘I wasn’t given the chance before she popped in. It shocked me. Remind me what you wanted again?’ 

He sat on the edge of her bed and answered, ‘I asked why you were on the floor and if you were bleeding.’ 

‘I was bleeding?’ Hermione inquired, leaning forward slightly, her arms folded across her chest. 

‘Apparently, otherwise I would not have said anything.’ 

‘I slid across the floor this morning.’ Hermione didn’t say anything more; she merely pointed to the socks she was wearing. ‘Being groggy and wearing woollen socks on a newly polished, hardwood floor do not suit, obviously. I stopped too late and slammed into the wall. I just decided to sit on the floor in a heap until I could gather the energy to go to the bathroom to inspect the damage.’ 

‘I wondered where my favourite pair of socks went... You were the one who took them. Clumsy girl, next time ask me for them. You could ask your mother to knit you a pair—’

‘I’ll pass on asking her. I’d never hear the end of it.’ She left off, deciding against delving into a source of contention. ‘Where did you see the blood? Face or otherwise?’ 

‘Your lip. The blood has since dried. Not that I think you belong at home, sweetheart, but your mother is right. It would not harm you to learn to knit or to be courted.’ 

Hermione slumped, closing her eyes, her head resting in her hand, frustrated that her attempt at avoiding conflict had failed. She thought for a moment, deciding to deflect. 

‘And you’ve been courted when?’ 

He grinned at her, noting her point and stretching his legs out on her bed. ‘No, I may not have been courted, but I have done the courting... to more than your mother. A shock, I know. I had a life before her. Never mind about that; it’s a topic for another time.’ 

Hermione nodded, twirling an errant curl that had fallen from the ribbon and into her face. She wound it tightly around her forefinger and let it go, watching it move quickly as it unwound and once more lay curled up on her face. 

‘In the hours I’ve been awake, I’ve thought about a potential mate for you.’ 

‘Oh, have you?’ she asked, meeting his eyes and straightening her posture. 

‘Yes. Another of your former schoolmates.’ 

‘If you suggest Ronald Weasley, I think I will become a spinster.’ 

‘And why is that? He’s a nice fellow.’ 

‘No doubt about that. I know his family—his sister and twin brothers are some of my best friends. I don’t know if marrying into his family would work. They’re lovely but quite boisterous when all together.’ 

‘You would not be marrying his family. You’d marry him. Besides, I have someone else in mind. You know him rather well, and I think you and he would match nicely.’ 

‘Oh, thank Merlin. So who is this mystery man? I’m curious.’ 

‘Harry Potter. You know him; you like him. It should be simple, yes?’ 

‘It’s possible. I’ve never thought about him as a suitor. Our connection felt familial. He dated Ron’s sister briefly at school. I thought he’d end up with her. He still may.’ She said all of this very fast.

‘So does this mean you aren’t interested?’ 

‘I’m unsure.’ 

‘How about you and he take tea once or twice, and then you can decide.’ 

‘I suppose there’s no harm in that.’ 

‘Good. I thought you and I would agree, so I took the opportunity to ring him this morning while you were asleep. He will be joining us for lunch.’ 

Oh, yes, go ahead and arrange something before consulting me. So respectful. She glanced up at the clock again; it was nearing noon. Breakfast and time for caffeine were long past. She would have to endure her day without coffee and with very little time for preparing herself. 

‘Before I go, a letter arrived for you.’ He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a thick, yellow envelope with a forest green seal. ‘The editor of Alchemica Postremo wrote to you. How odd.’ 

She took the letter from him, her mouth agape and her eyes wide, and set it on her desk. ‘He wrote back quickly. I assumed it would take days if not weeks for him to have time to review it... or if at all.’ 

‘I wasn’t aware you had written to him.’

‘Last night, before bed, I decided to submit a theory and try to find out more about him—that blurb in the journal didn’t offer much information, and it piqued my curiosity, so I asked him.’ 

‘Brave one, aren’t you?’ 

‘Not really. Honestly, what could he do: yell at me, restrict my membership, and blacklist me? All for one tiny question; it seems unlikely, so I’m not scared.’ 

William nodded, dismissing himself with a kiss to the top of her head, and told her to come down when she was ready. Hermione reluctantly left the letter, her hands itching to break the seal, and hurried down the hall to run water for a bath. She disrobed, sank into the steaming hot water and exhaled deeply, allowing the heat to wash over her and soothe her sore muscles and weary spirit. She was not prepared for today, she knew. She bathed in a hurry, smoothing a soapy, lavender-scented flannel over her body, skipping her still-clean hair, as it wouldn’t have time to dry in such a short amount of time. She would keep it tied back instead. 

Within minutes, she stepped out of the bath, water sloshing onto the floor. Hermione tossed the towel she had used onto the floor to sop up the water. She ran into her room and slipped a yellow dress over her head, put on slippers, and tied her hair back. She checked the mirror one last time before heading downstairs. She wasn’t pleased with how she looked—barely put together—but it would have to suffice. 

The stairs she took slowly as her mother had taught her, her hand caressing the rose carvings on the banister as she went. Three voices floated across the room to the staircase: her mother’s whispered, melodic tone, her father’s jovial bass, and Harry’s calm, even baritone. Listening to it soothed the nervous butterflies she felt rising in her throat. As she took the last step, Harry turned around to greet her, a wide, toothy grin gracing his features. His brilliant green eyes lit as he smiled. He walked over, holding his hand out for her to take as she stepped onto the ground. She took it, and he raised her hand to his lips for a polite kiss to her knuckles. 

‘It’s been too long long since we’ve met.’ 

She gazed at him, smiling. No longer the wiry boy she had known, he had filled out well. His slate grey trousers fit him nicely, his white, button-down cotton shirt was only a fraction too large, and his coat outlined his broad shoulders. His hair was still the same, just as messy as always. She noticed his face had matured: soft lines were beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. His glasses weren’t broken and taped together, the trademark of his youth. This pair, rectangular and silver, suited his face much better. 

‘You look—’ 

‘Different?’ 

‘But better, healthier. You no longer look like death.’ 

‘What, I looked like I would die at one point?’ 

‘Sort of.’ 

‘Yes or no?’ 

‘I’ll go with the former.’ 

‘Hmm... I wonder why that was?’ He chuckled heartily and pulled her into his embrace, whispering into her ear, ‘It really has been too long. I’ve missed you, you know.’ 

‘I know, Harry.’ 

William looked to Jean who was grinning. He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek, his breath caressing her ear as he spoke. ‘Do you think we have made a match?’ 

‘Perhaps. For now they simply share the comfort of old friends. Too early to tell, William. I know we’re anxious for her to find someone, but I think she may be right: she will have to find love on her own.’ 

‘Though we could prod her in the right direction.’ 

‘Maybe, William.’ 

‘Joining us for tea, Harry, Hermione?’ William asked, guiding Jean into the dining room where a silver tea service and porcelain plates were set on the table. 

Harry took Hermione’s hand in his, lacing their fingers, and followed her parents into the adjacent room. He pulled out a chair for Hermione, and once she was seated, he took his as well, folding the fine, white linen napkin in his lap. 

Jean served them, insisting that everyone take something to nibble on. They all settled in and began talking, though William and Jean carried on a private conversation while letting Harry and Hermione get reacquainted with one another. Once in a while, Harry would ask a question and one of them would answer, but they mainly left the couple to talk. At the end of tea, Harry said he simply could not indulge in anything more, no matter how divine. He asked permission to walk alone in the courtyard with Hermione. Jean was more hesitant than her husband but ultimately allowed it. The knowledge that they both could be seen by anyone on the property was a comfort, albeit a small one. 

‘Before things have a chance to progress, Hermione, I need to tell you something.’ 

‘Of course. Honesty is important.’ She felt her stomach flutter with anticipation, and she bit down on her lower lip a little too hard. 

He smiled warmly at her, grateful that she was willing to listen to him. She was still a good friend after all this time. Perhaps it wouldn’t be difficult after all. ‘Yes. Honesty. I feel it important to point out that I am not the boy with whom you grew up. I’ve changed.’ 

‘Obviously, Harry. You’re confident now, less easy to aggravate.’ 

‘Not just that.’ He didn’t elaborate, but rather led her to a bench under a shady tree. 

‘What are you trying to say?’ She sat on the bench next to him, watching his face change from friendly and open to guarded in an instant. 

‘Your father rang today, Hermione, as I’m sure you’re aware. I think he expects me to court you.’ 

‘Yes, he believes we are suited.’ Hermione frowned.

‘I’m not sure what you expect of me...’ 

‘What does that mean, Harry?’ 

‘I can offer you friendship, but I’m afraid a romance between us is impossible.’ He observed her for a moment, though he gleaned nothing. Her face remained impassive; the upward curl of her lips had not changed. 

‘Not that I disagree, Harry, but why?’ 

‘You’re... that is to say...’ 

‘You’re not interested in girls, are you? ’ she paused for a second when she heard his nervous laughter. ‘If I’m wrong, I apologise,’ she hastened to add. 

He took her hand and gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. ‘Whatever gave it away? Surely nothing about my behaviour reveals such information?’ 

‘To someone who hasn’t known you as long, no, not at all. But to me, I know when you’re hiding something and when you’re not being honest.

‘I’m pleased you’re not upset; I thought there was a possibility you might be.’ 

‘Harry, I would never be anything more than supportive of who you are and what you like. Those are your decisions, not mine. Besides, I’ve only ever known you as a friend, nothing more. You, like Ron, are too much like family to marry.’ 

‘Yes, we are,’ Harry agreed. ‘I should be off, Hermione. Don’t make it so long between our next visits, okay?’ 

‘Of course.’ 

Smiling, he kissed her cheek briefly and departed. 

Hermione walked back inside, grinning. It had been nice to visit with Harry once more. She had missed his easygoing personality and laughter. Although he was grown, she could still see the mischievous boy behind his eyes. He had not changed as much as he had hoped or said. 

‘You were outside a long time, Hermione,’ William spoke. ‘Anything of importance you have to say?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘He’s a nice man, and your mother and I would love to see you two together. The alliance would benefit all involved.’ 

‘That might be true, Daddy, but he and I aren’t romantically interested in each other. We have a friendship and nothing more. Some things you cannot force, and love is one of them.’ 

‘Certain partnerships don’t have to start out that way, love. You can develop feelings for someone, you know.’ 

‘Yes, I know. But if it is not there, I will not force it. And if I become an old maid, then I do. You and mum will have to deal with that, then.’ 

‘Yes, I suppose we will. Shall I try to find you someone else?’ 

‘If you wish. For now, I need to write a letter and to decompress from my day. I will talk to you and mother later.’ With that, she climbed the stairs two at a time and hurried into her room where snatched up the letter and flopped down on the bed, shutting her eyes, her mind still reeling from what Harry had told her and all that was to come in the following days. Going back to Hogwarts, and her father, ever the matchmaker, trying to pair her with someone new. As long as he did not come up with Draco Malfoy, she would be just fine.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the third letter in a matter of a few days from Prince. Hermione smiled at the spidery, black script of the note in front of her. The handwriting appeared vaguely familiar, but she cast aside the thought, reminding herself that some people wrote similarly to others. She sat outside on a rickety bench—one that had been on the property, she was sure, since before her grandmother had been born—the heat of the dying summer fast upon her neck. It was only a few moments before the iron seared into her skin. She jumped up quickly and sought refuge from the unrelenting sun and sizzling heat underneath an old maple tree; at least it was cooler in the shade. 

She set his letter aside, tucking the wrinkled parchment under the skirt of her dress so it wouldn’t fly away in an unexpected breeze. Hermione picked up her response to his queries—which were growing personal outside of sharing Potions theories and how they could positively alter human behaviour... how they might create a substance to reduce stress—and read over it, searching for errors. 

Hermione remembered something Prince had written when she asked him about his family: Both of my parents have been deceased for twelve years. The relationship with my father, Tobias, was less than stellar; it’s not important to delve into—too much time has passed, and I have since healed. My mother, bless her, was strong, but our relationship was strained at the best of times. I believe she was trying to compensate for what was lacking with my father. Thankfully, I was an only child. 

From what you have told me, you are an only child, as well. What of your relationship with your parents? Do you get on well? 

Hermione recalled an argument she’d had earlier with her mother and began to briefly write him about it. She took her wand out of the bun she’d had her hair styled in and tapped the paper, allowing the words she spoke to be transcribed in her own loopy style. She told him about how she and her father got on and how she and her mother fought.

‘You should write him,’ Jean had said casually as she passed from the parlour into the dining room.

‘Why should I? You already know there is no reason to do so since he lives in town. We are friends; nothing more. Not now, not ever, Mum.’ 

‘Oh, but are you certain? You and he look ever so nice together. He would be good for you.’

‘That may be true. Harry and I will see each other again, but not on the level you and father so fervently wish. We are simply not compatible.’ 

‘Right now, no, I know you aren’t, but you could be if you were to give it time. Let things develop between you and Harry. He is a dashing, considerate gentleman. He must have been brought up that way.’ 

Hermione let out an unladylike snort. ‘Riiight, and he got that from his aunt and uncle who are so civilised.’ 

‘I never said they were. You don’t have to be so snide.’ 

‘You certainly implied it, didn’t you? You know nothing of his upbringing... no parents, no real family of his own—who he had, his friends and professors, tried to set an example for him.’ 

‘Ah, I see. If not Harry, then who?’ 

‘You’ll have to discuss that with daddy. He said he was going to think about it and then let me know. In the meantime, I have enough to be getting on without worrying about tying myself down.’ 

‘You’re looking at it the wrong way, you know. It’s not as though you will have to change your dreams to suit your mate... Well, maybe a little, but surely you must understand what I mean, dearest.’ 

‘No, I’m not sure I do. Say you and father find someone suitable... and I do as well, and then once we marry, said man changes his mind and decides he wants me at home, serving him and whatever children we may have. It is not what I want for my life.’ Hermione imagined what it would be like not to have a career, not to have travelled.

‘He would be well within his rights to ask such a thing of you!’ 

‘Oh, so what if father had asked it of you when you first married? Would you have given up your education, career, dreams, everything you wanted just to serve him?’ 

‘I—’ 

‘You know you wouldn’t have! How could you ask such a thing of me when you wouldn’t have done it? How is that fair? Tell me!’ 

‘I’m not saying it would be fair!’ 

‘You implied that it doesn’t matter, or didn’t you notice what you said to me?’ 

‘I noticed, all right.’ 

‘So you don’t care? Is that it?’ 

‘You know I care about you! Never say that to me! You are my daughter...’ Jean paused, pushing her hair out of her face. She glared at Hermione, whose face was red, and her chocolate brown eyes were alight with a fire she had rarely seen. 

‘Yes, I know I am your daughter, but I know you never wanted me... You wanted someone perfect, someone normal.’ 

Jean gasped, her crystal water goblet slipping from her hand and crashing to the floor. They ignored the puddle of water and the shards of glass that had scattered in every direction, some even directly in front of their feet. Laboured breathing was all that could be heard whilst both women glared at each other.

‘What, you think I never knew about that? I heard you tell your friend Delores, over tea, no less, that you wished I was normal... and that you and father had hoped for a boy, but he was pleased when I was born. You, however, were disappointed. You wanted everything to fit into the perfect world you had imagined. You never wanted me!’ 

‘Just because I wasn’t ready for you does not mean I did not want you.’ 

‘No, it certainly doesn’t. But the way you’ve treated me shows more than you know. And what was I supposed to think, overhearing that you, of all people, weren’t as accepting of my bookishness, my special abilities as you had led me to believe? What is a ten-year-old child supposed to think about that? Was I supposed to shrug it off as just idle chatter with a friend?’ 

‘Please, don’t turn this conversation about finding a mate into something it isn’t. I just want you to find the happiness I have.’ 

‘Yes, you’re ever so happy. I forgot.’ 

William, startled, looked up from his desk in his office. His candle was almost out, and he heard the raised voices of his wife and daughter. He caught snatches of what should have been a normal conversation, but it wasn’t. It was an argument. One that was quickly spiralling out of control. He scooted his chair back, the legs scraping against the wooden floorboards, and he hurried out of the room, leaving the flickering flame of his candle to gutter and extinguish into the little wax that was left. 

He rushed down the stairs. His wife and daughter stood inches apart. Hermione’s wild hair stuck out in a travesty, and her lips curled into a snarl on her usually peaceful face. He’d never seen her so angry. It was a shock. His wife, however, presented the picture of calm—the only indicators of her state were her widened, defensive stance and her arms folded protectively over her chest. Very little penetrated her cool exterior, at times. 

‘Jean, Hermione. Stop. Just stop it. Right this instant. I don’t know what this is about, but it is not worth the racket and the roiling emotions. Whatever this is, let’s discuss it reasonably. You know how to be civil to one another. Show it! One of you, I don’t care who, calmly tell me why you’re rowing.’ 

Hermione walked over to the armchair closest to the arched window in the dining room and sat down, resting her arms in her lap. She calmly began, ‘Mum was encouraging a union between Harry and me. I told her we are not compatible; you’ve seen this for yourself, Daddy. She pushed just a little too far. And what started as an innocent conversation turned into “what ifs” and her outdated standards of how I should stay at home, being a doting wife and mother, when that’s clearly not what I want... right now. I took it further, I admit, and brought up a subject I had wanted to discuss for years, but for some reason, I never did.’ 

‘And what is that?’ William patted Hermione’s shoulder. 

‘There was something I overheard her and her friend Delores discussing years ago, something that was quite upsetting at the time.’ 

‘Go on.’ 

‘I heard her telling Delores how she had wanted a boy and that I was too odd—I read too much—and she didn’t know how to deal with my... er... special abilities. This is before I found out I was a witch. I believe I was ten.’ Hermione raised her hand to wipe away the tears welling in her eyes. Jean came to stand beside her, she noticed. 

‘Honey, I wish you had told me then, instead of waiting all of these years. And you’re right, you should have gone about it another way instead of bringing it up during an argument about marriage and family,’ William said. 

‘I want you to know, Hermione, that while I wish for you to marry and have children, I also want you to find a way to make your dreams fit within your family life. I did, and I know you can. I know it seems like I’m pushing you too hard, and maybe I am, but I don’t want you to end up an old maid. Gentlemen of a sort do not want women who are past child-bearing age. It’s one of the main reasons why men marry – to carry on their legacy.’ 

‘I am aware, Mother. You’ve only told me this in every letter you wrote to me at school, pushing to get me to find a nice young man before I graduated and started a career. I was... for lack of a better way to say this... I was too busy. War, Mother, is the reason why I was reluctant to become romantically attached—I was too afraid I’d lose them. Well, it’s not the only reason. When I wasn’t worried about everyone I know and love being murdered, I was looking after my two best friends whilst trying to pass my courses. It wasn’t an easy task, I assure you. I know it’s not an excuse any longer.’ 

‘Your reasoning makes sense.’ 

‘Then, after school was over, I started a career, one that did not suit as you witnessed, and I became too wrapped up in that; I figured that I had time to marry. I still do. Perhaps not as much as I would like.’ 

‘Right. The type of man who would match with you is different. Perhaps you need someone older, someone established... maybe someone who isn’t so family driven.’ William patted Hermione’s shoulder again and offered her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. 

Hermione excused herself from the room, and Jean and William talked in hushed tones.

‘You think you’ll find someone for her, someone who is as bookish as she and can handle her fiery nature?’ Jean asked. 

‘I believe I will. There’s only one man who will be for her, and I think I know who he is. A patient of mine... Alexander... has a nephew who would suit our Hermione perfectly. Hermione knows him, too.’ 

‘Oh, William, do not try to match her with another of her friends.’ 

‘I never said she was friends with the man. In fact, I daresay they are as far apart from being friends as it is possible to be.’ 

‘Is he in her age group?’ 

William gave a mischievous half smile. ‘Not at all. Our Hermione does not need a boy of her age. She needs a man, one who is settled and knows more about life than she, one who will understand her and push her to do more than she ever thought possible. This is who she needs. One who is not necessarily suited to a family at this point, but one who will love and cherish her.’ 

‘And you know the man and she does, too? Who are you considering?’ 

‘Her former schoolmaster, Severus Snape.’


	4. Chapter 4

‘Did you ask Harry to come to Brighton to visit the Royal Pavilion?’ William asked Hermione, who was bent over a parchment, her thumb playing over the sea green feather of the quill she held. 

She merely nodded, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip as she dipped the quill into the ink and proceeded to write, a small, tidy line of words appearing as the golden nib skated across the yellowed paper. She paused in her line of thought to examine what she had written and scratched out a sentence. She did not want to seem like an idiot to ‘Prince’. One wrong word, she felt, would not change the dynamic between them—they shared an ease that bespoke years of friendship and comradery rather than mere acquaintance. 

‘Sorry, what were you saying? I was immersed in writing,’ she stated, resting her quill atop the uncapped inkwell. 

‘I asked if you had invited Harry on our excursion to Brighton tomorrow.’ 

‘Not yet. In fact, I should do that now.’ 

‘Yes, you should. The day is coming to a close soon. You should have done so sooner, but I cannot begrudge you—your mind has been elsewhere lately, and your free time is almost over; the school year begins next week.’ He folded his newspaper neatly and set it on the table beside him, waiting for a reply. 

Hermione snorted. ‘Urgh. Did you have to mention that?’ 

‘I would be remiss if I didn’t.’ 

Hermione placed the cap on the ink, put her quill with the others in the glass and tucked in her chair at the desk. She left her letter out, knowing she’d return to it after her visit with Harry. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m not ready to think about the task ahead of me.’ 

‘Now is as good a time as any, dear. You’ll be leaving the middle of the coming week.’ 

She quirked an eyebrow at her father as she walked to the door to the room, her hand resting on the bronze handle. 

He returned her gaze and grinned. ‘Go on, out with you,’ he said, his voice full of laughter and mirth. ‘Daylight is fleeting. You don’t want the big, bad wolf to get you.’ 

‘It never gets old, does it?’ 

‘Not a bit.’ He laughed once more, watching her exit the lounge. William waited until he heard her muffled footsteps shuffle across the floor and the front door click shut before he went to inspect Hermione’s unfinished letter. He had been curious about the contents of the correspondence between Hermione and whoever was writing her. He had never given more than a cursory glance to the front of the envelopes. All he’d ever noticed was the surname Prince in the place where the return address was supposed to be. 

She was always writing, it seemed, and he wanted to know who the recipient was, not necessarily the contents. If he were honest with himself, he wanted to know more about this Prince character and who he or she was to his daughter.

He picked up the two pages of parchment, careful not to knock anything over, and began to read. Within the first paragraph, he remembered Prince’s identity: the editor of Alchemica Postremo. Apparently, Hermione had been writing to him for a while, as the nature of the letter indicated. There was familiarity in the way she wrote to him, much like there was with the Potter fellow, only it was different. He sensed affection... at least from Hermione. He wasn’t sure if Prince felt similarly. He could only speculate. 

His stomach twisted, and his hands shook as he moved onto the second paragraph—he was uncomfortable reading further. It was an intrusion of her privacy to continue to read, and he felt it keenly. He set the letter back in its place and went into his office to write a letter of his own... to Severus Snape. He wanted to speak with the man the following day at the Pavilion. William thought Snape and his daughter would suit well, as he’d heard his patient speak highly of the man. His patient had said that his nephew was settled and not exactly looking to start a family, well read, widely travelled, had a sense of humour—albeit a dark one—and he was passionate about research. 

After William wrote the letter to Snape, he sent it with Hermione’s owl. He sat in his office for a while until he heard Hermione’s voice; she was singing softly to herself as she entered the lounge downstairs. He heard the scrape of the chair on the floor as she settled in. 

Sitting in her chair, Hermione noted that the parchment had been moved. She supposed her mother or father had walked past and their clothing perhaps brushed it to the side. Discarding the thought, she wrote. Jean called her to dinner twice before finally coming into the room to get her. With a flourish, she finished the letter and sent it off. 

‘How did your visit with Harry go?’ Jean asked, making small talk to fill the silence. 

‘Oh, it was fine. He agreed to accompany us to Brighton in the morning. He also said he’d like to visit the Pavilion and the gardens, maybe go horseback riding along the bridle path if we can bribe one of the caretakers into letting us.’ 

William choked back a laugh as he swallowed a portion of his salad. ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary—the bribe, I mean.’ 

‘It might not be, but it would be fun.’ 

‘Sounds like that’s more Harry’s idea than yours,’ Jean said, offering Hermione a biscuit. 

Hermione laughed as she accepted the sweet, chocolaty treat. ‘You know him too well already.’ 

‘Perhaps not. We know you—you’ve never been much for mischief.’ 

She laughed heartily. ‘There’s so much you don’t know... and so much I’ll never tell you, either.’ 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ William and Jean asked together. 

‘Only that I was away from you and father while I was at school. I’ll not go as far as to say I led any rebellions, but like any child, I had my moments.’ She tried to hide the smile that threatened to surface by drinking the last of the chamomile tea from her pink-rose patterned porcelain cup. Better not to mention that incident with the house-elves in her fourth year or the thing with Umbridge in her fifth. Not that she wasn’t proud of leading that horrible woman into the Forest in order to provide them leeway, she just thought it was better her parents didn’t know about it. 

Such as? her father wanted to ask; instead he replied, ‘Youthful indiscretion, then.’ 

Hermione smiled indulgently. ‘Perhaps.’ 

***

 

The next day found them in Brighton after a brief train ride. The sky darkened, and the clouds became heavy and grey as Hermione and Harry strolled along the tree-lined road in Preston Park. They came upon The Rockery and the old building with its dark, rain-soaked stone and ivy climbing up and over the arched windows to the front of the roof. Trees and ferns covered most of the old property. Harry took the moss-covered steps two at a time and then helped Hermione up on the last step, as it was crumbling and had scorch marks. He wondered, in passing, if a bolt of lightning was responsible for the marks or if something more sinister had taken place—an attack or a duel that had been fought on these grounds. 

The wind picked up, signalling an oncoming storm. ‘We should take cover soon; there’s a storm moving in,’ Harry said, pushing his glasses up, sweat beading on the tip of his nose. 

‘We’re relatively safe for now. We’ve an hour or so before the rain and lightning.’ Hermione sat on one of the wet stone posts by the front of the building, gesturing for Harry to do the same.

Harry sat down, finding his spot of stone not as damp as he thought it would be. He dangled his legs from the ledge, letting them swing and hit the surface lightly. He raised his eyebrow at her, but didn’t say anything. Sometimes Hermione just knew things, and asking her why would be like asking why most birds fly when others don’t. ‘Yesterday, you mentioned that you had something to say to me, but you never elaborated. What was that all about? I’m not accustomed to you withholding information.’ 

‘I was rushed for time, you know... Father doesn’t like me to be out past dark. He’s afraid something might happen.’ 

‘It’s not without reason he asks that of you.’ 

‘Well, no. But it was already late when I remembered to invite you. Anyway.’ She shook her head. ‘I was going to tell you about the letters I’ve been writing.’ 

‘I remember you mentioning that. You’d been communicating with that editor... Prince? How is he?’ 

‘Oh, he’s well. We write to one another almost daily—don’t know how he finds the time, really, but I’m glad he does. We talk about everything, not just our scholarly pursuits. Hopes, dreams, and humorous anecdotes are exchanged. He’s... a friend.’ 

‘You paused, so you’re considering something. Perhaps it’s more than friendship you want from him?’ 

‘Honestly, I’m unsure. All we have are words, Harry—it’s easy to imagine a spark, something more than friendship. I can’t see his face, and we’ve not spent time together.’ 

‘That doesn’t change how you feel about him, though.’ 

‘You’re right; it doesn’t change a thing.’ 

‘Perhaps you should ask to meet with him.’ 

She felt the first drops of a chilly rain splatter on her forehead, and she wiped them away, ignoring the rumbling thunder in the distance. ‘That’s a bit forward, yes?’ 

‘It is, but sometimes you have to be.’ 

‘Normally, I would agree with you, but there’s not enough time before I have to leave.’ 

‘Does he know?’ 

Hermione looked at him, pushing her damp curls from her face, pressing her lips together. ‘Not yet.’

‘If you’re interested in keeping contact with him, he will have to know where to send the owl.’ 

She nodded her assent. ‘We should get back. Father said that after his appointment with his patient’s nephew, he had someone he wants me to meet.’ 

Harry rolled his eyes as he hopped down from the post. ‘He never gives up, does he?’ He walked over to Hermione and helped her down so she wouldn’t slip. 

‘No, he doesn’t. He and mum are afraid I will be forever alone if I don’t marry before I reach twenty-five. I keep trying to tell them there’s nothing wrong with being single, and just because I choose not to marry doesn’t mean I’m lonely or I will have any less of a life than someone who is married and has children, or that it will reflect badly on them. If people judge them over that—’ 

‘And they will, Hermione. You know they will... judge you for your choices, I mean. I’m not saying it’s right, but it happens all the time.’ Harry scanned the area, looking for passersby before clasping Hermione’s hand and Apparating behind the maple tree from where they had come. It was risky since he didn’t know whether or not it was occupied, but it was the chance he took. He could Obliviate someone if he needed to. 

Hermione opened her eyes after having shut them tightly. She hated the squeezing sensation Apparition caused; it made her head whirl and her stomach churn, so she used it as infrequently as possible. Few people were about, she noticed, just a woman holding a small boy on her hip as she walked across the way. She obviously hadn’t noticed their sudden appearance in the distance. 

‘Shall we find your father?’ 

‘Do we have to?’ 

Harry stifled a laugh, covering it quickly with a cough. ‘Now, now, no shirking responsibilities,’ he joked. 

‘I’m not. Just be glad it’s not you he’s trying to marry off.’ 

‘Oh, Merlin, don’t say that too loudly. He might hear you or sense that you said it, then I’ll be subjected—’ 

‘Like I said: just be glad he’s not. You get to choose...’ 

‘Yes, but my pool is much smaller than yours. And besides, you ultimately get the choice. He can introduce you to as many men as he can find, but you get the final say as to who will court you, marry you, and the like.’ 

‘You. The voice of reason. When did we switch places?’ 

‘Hey, I’ve been known to have moments when I’m the reasonable one of us.’ 

Hermione snorted and continued walking. ‘Oh, yes, let’s count the times, shall we?’ 

‘Or not.’ Harry shook his head at her, continuing to listen to her ramble on about something. He spied her father walking with a man who looked like Snape. It couldn’t be, could it? Since when did the reclusive, former professor associate with students’ parents—or even former students. Never willingly, he recalled. His face fell. This was the man William wanted Hermione to meet. No, she would not be happy about this, not at all. 

‘Er, Hermione, did your father mention who he was going to introduce you to?’ 

‘Not by name, no. He only said it was his patient’s nephew. Nothing more. Why do you ask?’ 

‘You’ll find out in a minute or so, I’d say.’ He pursed his lips, anticipating her reaction. 

‘You know something, Harry. I know you do.’

‘Oh, look, it’s stopped raining.’ He avoided answering her, preferring instead to look at the clearing sky. 

‘Oh, nice attempt at a change of conversation. Real mature.’ 

‘Harry, Hermione, come join us!’ William called. 

Hermione turned in the direction of her father’s voice. She saw him and the man beside him. Dressed in a black suit with a white shirt underneath—collar unbuttoned and lying open to reveal pale flesh and a faded scar—was Snape. Her father thought Snape was the perfect man for her. A man who was sarcastic and vile, but valiant and strong. How could her father want the man who had hated her to be a part of the family?

‘Harry,’ Hermione said through gritted teeth, ‘this is a joke, right?’ 

‘I’m afraid not. Good luck.’ He urged her forward. 

She approached Snape slowly, coming to stand before him. He politely bowed to her, which made her uneasy. Snape. Bowing. When he straightened his position, he looked at her, letting his eyes traverse her form, a half smile on his lips. Her breath caught when he returned her gaze and gently squeezed her hand in greeting. She felt something in his touch—a spark that sent pleasant heat throughout her body.

‘Miss Granger, good day. Your father mentioned he had a lovely daughter. I suspected it was you to whom he was referring. He said we were acquainted, but he never told me your name.’ 

Hermione swallowed. ‘Good day to you as well. He spoke nothing of you, either. I only found out this morning I was to meet someone he knew.’ 

‘William, you are quite the cunning fellow. Only saying what you want people to know... You would have done well in Slytherin.’ 

‘I’ve invited Lord Snape for lunch tomorrow, Hermione.’ 

She didn’t know what to say, so she nodded and bid them farewell, walking away to join Harry, who had retreated to the far side of the park.

The colour drained from her face, and she felt faint. A whole afternoon she had agreed to. An afternoon with a man she didn’t know or understand, a man who piqued her interest yet made her stomach churn with nervous energy. She could only hope he had changed and that he could keep a civil tongue whilst at dinner; otherwise, the next day would be a painful experience.


	5. Chapter 5

Lunch time found Hermione sitting across from Snape, who was dressed casually, no robes, nothing buttoned up to his chin. He wore a regular button-down, black shirt without a waistcoat and suit jacket. His trousers, too, were black. As it was a warm day, the cuffs on his sleeves were unfastened and rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale skin. Hermione thought he looked comfortable in his seat at her dining room table, though she did not feel the same. After all this time, he still made her uneasy, as if he would say something scathing and send her to her room. She, of course, knew he couldn’t, but it didn’t stop her from thinking about it. 

She listened to him speak to her parents, his voice soft, almost like velvet, and she felt herself focussing on it rather than the words he spoke. 

‘I don’t think she’s listening, do you?’ Snape whispered to William, tucking his napkin away. 

‘I’d say not. Her eyes are a bit glazed over at the moment. Perhaps her mind is elsewhere,’ William responded, shrugging. 

Snape smirked evilly, an altogether creepy experience had Hermione been paying attention. ‘I’ll change that.’ 

He clapped his hands once, a loud, sharp sound breaking the silence of the room, and it startled Hermione. She jumped as if shot. 

‘Huh? Why did you do that?’ she muttered, glaring at Snape. 

‘Because you weren’t paying attention.’ 

‘I was, too—’ 

‘Or not... I never took you to be the daydreaming sort, especially when it comes to matters of importance.’ 

As if your presence here is important. Oh, wait, I forgot. My parents want me to marry, and you’re the latest in their line of suitors. Her stomach flipped unexpectedly when he grinned. What was that? Did he just smile at me? This could be interesting, indeed.

Hermione forked a few leaves of baby spinach and a strawberry from her plate and brought it to her mouth, chewing slowly to give herself time. ‘I’m not the type, usually. Forgive me. My attention slipped from our delightful conversation. I’m beginning a new career in a week, so my mind is elsewhere at the moment.’ 

‘Oh? Do tell, Miss—Hermione.’ Snape almost slipped, forgetting he was in her home, engaging her in conversation. 

Is that real or feigned interest? she mused before explaining about her previous career in the Ministry of Magic and why she left—boredom—and how she thought teaching a new generation would be more interesting. 

Time passed, and neither of them noticed William or Jean slipping quietly away from the table with their drinks in hand, whispering to each other. Severus had moved his plate and cutlery to the side so he could clasp his hands in front of him. He leaned forward, listening to her speak, occasionally nodding in assent. 

They had since moved on from discussing her career to his. He tried to brush it off, only giving her an overview of his comfortable life as a writer, but he did not give details. He distracted her by changing the subject. 

‘Hermione, we’ve talked well into the evening—your parents have long since disappeared from the room.’ 

She looked at the two empty, high-backed parsons chairs. ‘Oh, so they have. I didn’t see them leave.’ 

‘I noticed the sudden silence a few hours ago.’ 

‘It did become more silent, didn’t it?’ she asked more to herself than to him. 

He smiled genuinely. It even reached his dark-as-tunnels eyes. She saw light and something else—something she’d not seen before. Hope, maybe? She wished she knew. 

He surveyed her over his steepled fingers. She had changed more than she had let on in her letters—of course, she didn’t know to whom she was really writing, just a fellow named Prince. She’d told him of her dreams, desires, theories, all of which showed a side of her, but who she was on parchment did not reveal all of who she was. He noticed the passionate but reserved side of her in letters, but face to face, he witnessed that and more: the mischievous glint in her eyes, the brave, bookish woman he’d only glimpsed in their communication. He was intrigued. 

‘Is it too much to assume you’re free tomorrow?’ he asked. 

‘No, it’s not. I’m available.’ She watched him nod minutely, wondering what he had in mind. ‘Would you care for tea tomorrow, then?’ she added as he stood, the napkin he had tucked into his lap falling to the floor. As he bent to retrieve it, she glanced at the way his trousers fit his long legs, how the material clung to his bottom. Mentally, she scolded herself for staring. He laid the folded napkin on the table and then, in long strides, made his way to the front door.

‘Yes. Until tomorrow, then.’ 

Hermione watched him leave, her hand on the door. She watched until he suddenly disappeared down the long road. As she walked outside to stand on the manicured front lawn, the cool evening air flowing through the gauzy material of her dress, she wondered about the man with whom she’d spent the day—surely he could not have been Snape. They resembled each other, yes, but this man had none of Snape’s vitriol, none of his cruel humour—though his sarcasm was still intact. It made her wonder if she had ever really known Snape. Maybe she had only seen a part of him before. 

***

 

Tea with Snape—no, Severus, had passed by several days, and they had since seen each other four times. They had spent time together on her parents’ property, with one or both of them in tow. They had also gone to the lake, visited Brighton, and had dinner. 

On this day, her last at her parents’ home, Severus had asked permission to take Hermione to the park, which was agreed to without complaint from Jean—surprisingly—and William. They even let her go with him unaccompanied. 

William trusted Severus with Hermione; he knew from their first encounter they were suited, and that Severus, however set in his ways he might be, however they might argue—sometimes heatedly—that Severus was ultimately a good, loyal, intelligent man who would never hurt her. 

Severus strode along the front walk, breathing deeply. He reached the red, oak door and lifted his hand to the bronze knocker, his fore and middle fingers slipping in it easily, and he rapped, listening to the heavy clink and wondering how any of them ever heard visitors use the tiny knocker. He suspected they didn’t, rather that it was part of a system... perhaps something with bells. 

Hermione heard the tintinnabulation of bells from upstairs, so she padded from the kitchen on her bare feet to greet the visitor. She peered through the peep hole and saw Severus—he was early, by more than twenty minutes. Hermione was pleased to see him, but she had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, something akin to anxious energy and dread; it made her stomach heat unpleasantly. 

‘Good afternoon,’ Severus greeted as Hermione stepped aside to allow him in. 

Hermione nodded and slid past him. ‘Give me a moment; I need shoes.’ 

Severus glanced down at her feet, her dainty toes peeking out from her skirt. 

She reappeared after five minutes—she’d had her sandals almost immediately, but kept him waiting as she’d read the latest of Prince’s letters. ‘Sorry about that, Severus. I... got distracted.’ 

Nodding, he grunted at her. 

She supposed that meant it was okay. 

‘You’re ready to go, then? No more distractions?’ 

‘No more for now.’ She ducked out of the house first, allowing him to close the door and follow her. 

They walked in silence until they reached the park. Hermione looked up at the sky and then to him, noticing he was scowling. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. 

‘Storms today.’ He gestured to the dark grey clouds to the east. ‘I feel the drop in the barometric pressure perhaps more keenly than others. A life hard lived and all that,’ Severus muttered.

‘My dad does, too. I have a theory about barometric pressure and arthritis: when barometric pressure drops, pain increases, and when pressure increases, pain recedes. Of course, I do not have proof—but I’ve seen my father’s symptoms change with the weather. Perhaps he is unique in this.’ Hermione strolled a little ahead of Severus, smiling when she saw two ducklings waddling towards the brush near the pond. 

‘Perhaps you’re onto something. Your theories are usually sound.’ 

‘Wait... usually? You mean I’ve been wrong?’ Hermione affected an air of shock, her eyes widening and her lips curling into a grin. 

‘Miss Perfect you are not.’ He edged closer to her, matching her pace. 

She laughed at him. ‘We’ll save perfection for the saints.’ 

‘Or me.’ Severus snorted, knowing what he had said was false. Comfortable silence settled between them as the sky further darkened and clouds began to cluster. ‘I’ve been thinking about your theory...’ 

‘Which?’ Hermione responded, standing in front of the pond, the water rippling with gusting wind, a family of ducks swimming merrily along behind their mother. 

‘The one utilising belladonna, jimson weed, and mandrake leaves—though, it may be beneficial to add henbane—to form hyoscyamine. It will increase low heart rate. With testing, it’s possible that it may treat peptic ulcers, spasms... It could also benefit in dilating one’s pupils.’ 

Severus watched Hermione turn to look at him; she tilted her head, pressed her lips together, and raised her eyebrow at him. Come on, Hermione, put it together. 

‘Severus, I’ve never shared that theory with you. How do you know it?’ 

‘Are you sure you haven’t?’ 

Hermione paused to consider, thoughts rushing in her mind: his humour, the similarity between him and Prince, the letters—how they were composed, both spidery handwriting and style and Severus’s remarks on her old school papers. How Prince had seemed to know things about her she hadn’t told him—things of her school days. She assumed it had become common knowledge and anyone could have made the connection. 

‘You’re... you’re Prince.’ Her mouth went dry. ‘You knew from the moment my father met you in Brighton.’ 

‘Yes. It’s the reason I agreed when he wrote.’ Droplets of rain fell from the sky and onto his cheeks. He did not bother to wipe them away or suggest they move. 

‘So... you knew, and yet you saw no reason to be honest with me?’ 

‘A regrettable decision, I admit. I didn’t expect—’ 

‘I don’t even want to know what you expected, Severus. I... I expected better of you. The man you are—no, were—I never expected you to lie because you could.’ She went silent; tears mixed with the pouring rain fell from her cheeks. Hermione lowered her head and gathered the material of her lacy, yellow skirt, lifting it a fraction to prevent it from getting wet and muddy, and ran away, Severus calling after her. She didn’t look back at him; she didn’t interrupt her steady run to Harry’s. 

***

 

‘Harry!’ She pounded on the sodden door with her fist. ‘Harry!’ With her luck, he wasn’t home. She waited a few moments in the rain, thunder booming overhead. 

She had turned to leave when the front door opened. Harry stood there, his white shirt rumpled with several buttons fastened in the wrong holes, his hair sticking out even worse than usual, a deep green necktie hanging loosely about his neck. 

‘You’re soaked! Been playing in the rain, again, I see.’ He invited her in, and she stood on the rug in his foyer, water dripping from her nose and hair. ‘I’ll fetch you a towel. I’d say have a seat, but you’re dripping wet.’ 

Harry left the room, and Hermione looked around the living room while she stood in place. She noticed two half-empty goblets with burgundy-coloured wine in them on the low, bevelled glass table in front of the sofa. A newspaper lay furled up on the far corner of the couch. She heard Harry’s voice whispering—a male voice she didn’t recognise responded. Next, swift footsteps, the soft sound of expensive leather shoes on the floors. 

‘Forget the towel, Potter, you have a wand. Use it.’ 

‘Oh, right. A towel is more comforting, though.’ 

‘That’s what a hug is for, you dolt,’ came the haughty voice of Draco Malfoy. He appeared in front of her, his coiffed blond hair styled just past his neck, and he wore a look of disgust, his nostrils flaring. He withdrew his ebony wand and pointed it at her. ‘Oh, relax, Granger. I have better things to do than to harm you. I merely intend to dry you off—you look pathetic, like some travesty of a wet and bedraggled cat. Can’t have that.’ He flicked his wand. 

‘Thanks, I think.’ No longer dripping wet and freezing, she laughed nervously. ‘I should have thought to use a charm to dry off.’

Draco smirked and sat down on the sofa. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked casually, unconcerned with her reason. 

‘Snape. He’s Prince, Harry. He lied to me.’ 

‘Lied as in you asked him and he said no?’ Draco scooted to the edge of his seat to listen. 

‘No. He knew as soon as we met in Brighton, and he didn’t say anything. I put it together today, and he finally admitted to it.’ 

‘Well, at least you know,’ Harry offered, wrapping his arms around her. 

‘I don’t know if I can trust him, Harry.’ She cried onto his shoulder. 

‘He’s not a bad man, Granger, trust me. I know him better than most. He probably wanted to tell you but didn’t know how. He would have eventually.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ Harry said, moving to sit by Draco on the couch. ‘How did you find out?’ 

‘We were discussing theories, and he said something I knew I hadn’t told him... however, it was something I had told Prince—’ 

‘That was his way of trying to tell you, Granger. You can trust him. The question remains, though: do you want to?’ 

‘He’s right, Hermione, and it’s something you have to figure out for yourself. Perhaps take some time—not too long, mind you—and think it over.’ 

‘You both deserve to know if what you have is worth exploring, so don’t take forever. He won’t chase after you; he’s not that kind of man.’ 

Hermione left shortly thereafter, her head spinning with what Draco and Harry had said to her. She needed time to think, but she didn’t have time left at home to do it. She would have to readjust to life away from her parents and friends again, this time with one more thing on her mind. 

***

 

Three weeks passed, and Hermione began teaching, sans letters from Prince. She’d heard from her parents—each of them imploring her to set aside her anger and speak with Snape. Harry had remained silent on the topic, though he did write to her, as did Ginny. 

The last letter had been from her father, inviting her to lunch. She reluctantly agreed, knowing her parents would not be the only ones present. If she knew them as well as she thought she did, Snape would be there, too. She wasn’t excited to see him, but it was time to face him, to let him know that he should move on. 

Hermione, with a bottle of white wine in hand, Apparated from Hogsmeade to her parents’ home, appearing inside her old bedroom with a loud ‘crack’. The room looked the same as it always had; even the calendar with all but one day marked off was still hanging—precariously—underneath a tack on the wall. She stood still for a moment, debating whether or not to take down the calendar since it was outdated.

‘Hermione.’ William said to gain her attention, standing out in the hall. ‘Your mother is in my office. She wants to see you before you head downstairs.’ 

‘Oh, okay.’ She grinned, hugging her father hello and then walking with him down the hall, arm in arm, to his office. They entered, but instead of her mother, she found Snape perusing the dusty books on the shelves lining the dim room. 

‘You said mum would be here,’ Hermione whispered into her father’s ear. 

‘She’s here, but in the kitchen.’ 

‘So... you lied.’ 

‘It was for a good reason. You and he need to talk, and you know as well as I do that would not have happened. Yes, you’re angry with me now, but you will get over it. Now, in you go.’ William locked the door after he gave her a gentle push into the room. 

‘Severus,’ Hermione said flatly. 

‘Hermione,’ he replied, facing her. ‘You don’t sound pleased to see me.’ 

Hermione stared at the bookshelves above his head, trying to read the fading gilded titles. ‘I’d say not.’ She didn’t elaborate or look at him, though she did hear his boots click as he walked... He was moving to the window seat, no doubt. 

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Severus,’ she said, finally facing him, his hair curtaining his face so she couldn’t see his expression. She had to strain to hear what he said next. 

‘I’ll ask you to listen to me... just this once.’ His voice, barely more than a whisper, did not waver. 

Hermione sat upon her father’s leather chair across the room from him. ‘I’ll listen, but I won’t make you any promises.’ 

‘I won’t ask you to promise me anything.’ He waited for her to say something, anything. He only heard her breathe in and out every few seconds. ‘I wasn’t as forthcoming with you as I should have been, I’ll admit.’ 

Hermione huffed. 

‘I didn’t lie to you, as you’d like to think, either. You never asked. I never told. I hadn’t really thought about it beforehand, but I suppose I should have known the letters would continue and it would become awkward.’ 

‘No, you didn’t lie. I see that, now. But you still could have said something about it. I liked Prince... Maybe more than liked.’ 

‘I figured you did.’ 

‘But then I liked you, too... once I discovered you weren’t the man you were years ago.’ 

Severus stood up, and in three strides, he was in front of her. He tilted her chin upward with his forefinger, no longer allowing her to avoid his gaze. ‘Hermione, people change. I was not immune. I am Prince, but I’m Severus, too.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘Then it’s not a question of can you reconcile who I was with who I am, but rather, will you?’ 

‘I’ve spent weeks debating that very thing. And just when I think can’t, my curiosity gets the better of me. There’re still things I want to know about you, more time I want to spend with you. I-I guess I have my answer.’ 

Severus leaned down to kiss her cheek, but she put her hand on his face and guided him to her lips. He lingered only a moment, as he heard keys clinking and then the sudden rattle of the doorknob twisting to admit someone. He pulled away quickly, straightening his posture, and snuck a glance at Hermione just as her father entered the room. Her cheeks were pink, and she nibbled her lower lip. 

‘I trust you two have ironed out your differences?’ William looked from Severus to his daughter. Both appeared to be fine, though Hermione was trembling, from emotions or his sudden entrance, he didn’t know. 

‘Yes,’ Severus answered. 

William nodded, ducking out of the room. ‘As you were. Join us in a few, please.’ 

They waited until the door clicked shut. ‘Now, where was I?’ 

‘Just,’ Hermione whispered, rising from her seat. ‘About.’ She kissed both sides of his mouth, and he chuckled. ‘Here.’ She licked his lips, then rested hers upon them, placing her hands on his shoulders. 

‘Mmm. Nice reminder. Perhaps you’d care to do it again?’ 

‘Hush, now. Kiss me again.’ And he did until they were breathless and her parents called them to lunch.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 2010 SSHG Exchange on Livejournal.


End file.
